The Underground
by spiffingly
Summary: Garrett Hawke is a mercenary. Except nowadays the term is "odd jobs". A job with a certain notoriously incompetent group, set up by a dwarf with too much information, sets him down a path more dangerous than he knows. Modernish Thedas AU with dwarves, elves, and mages. (Oh my.)


Keep moving.

This was his motto, his mantra. They may as well have been his damn family words. Running had been a way of life so long as he could recall. Home was never a single, concrete place for him. It was a sort of abstract concept, something that he associated with family and a warm (though often shared, uncomfortable, or otherwise undesirable) bed. They might stay in one town for a few weeks, perhaps a few months. Larger cities meant more hiding. They meant staying under the radar with a bit more ease, but inevitably, they were places he would eventually flee. Some places held to his memory better than others. Redcliffe lingered with a warmth around his ribs, like a hot meal on a cold day. Denerim was the spot in his vision when he stared too long at the sun or glanced straight at a lamp. Lothering stung. It tore at him like a million tiny cuts, all doused in alcohol and bound a bit too tightly. Garrett had never believed in home; not as a tangible, literal place. His home was ever-changing, a new place over every phase of his life. Lothering still ached because Lothering was where he gave up even that concept. It was where he watched his father die. It was where he saw his brother off to some fool's war, sure to follow. It was where he was forced to flee, unless he cared to find the same fate. And it was that flight that took his sister.

Still, it must have been better than Kirkwall. At least in Lothering, he was still moving. Kirkwall was stagnant and impossible. He hadn't seen a city of the size in years, certainly had never spent time in the heart of one. It was expansive and layered and more crowded than he knew possible. Yet, for what must have been miles of city roads and high buildings, he couldn't remember ever feeling so claustrophobic. Not in the one-room farmhouse back in Lothering, not even in the closet of an apartment just outside Denerim proper. There was something in the air here that made it thicker, harder to breathe. Something about the people that kept him feeling isolated, alone in a way he didn't know how to combat. Kirkwall had, many years before any still-living were born, been called the city of chains. That felt about right.

Worst of all, it was becoming home. Not in the way he used to believe, not as a place where he was surrounded by loved ones or felt relatively safe. Lothering had done away with his family and the towering Chantry- a building visible from near every street in the city- promised he would never be safe. It was becoming that other sort of home- the meaning that referred to a geographical location rather than a state of mind. They weren't moving. They weren't running. And in Garrett's mind, that meant they had already been defeated. This, however, was not a sentiment he found himself in position to share. Mother had lost far too much for him to trouble her with his nostalgia. She'd sat at his father's side through illness and watched him struggle for his last breath. She'd watched her daughter struck down when they made the move to seek refuge, to escape the war that her other son had quickly deserted. As for said second son, Carver had never been a source of comfort. There had always been a barrier there, something Carver had been constructing from the day his twin had shown the first sign of magic. Carver had been made the outcast in a family comprised mostly of them. Where those powers were feared, uncommon, illegal in all ways that counted by most, the Hawke family stood in a relatively unique position. Garrett and Bethany had found themselves mages born into a family headed by an apostate. They both enjoyed and suffered extensive teaching and over-attention from their father. Carver, on the other hand, was normal. There was nothing about him that needed be carefully concealed, save his bloodline. Garrett might have forgiven the resentment, if only through harsh quips and rude taunts, had Carver not put on the Templar's uniform just weeks after arriving in Kirkwall. Mother may not have seen it his way, may have focused merely on his safety rather than his betrayal, but Garrett couldn't align himself likewise. Templars were, had always been, would always be the enemy. No excuses, no explanations would lessen the pain of watching his brother turn face.

These were the thoughts that clouded Garrett's mind that morning, similar to each previous since arriving in Kirkwall. Dreams of running, escaping, _surviving, _dreams of his father and his sister, of his family as a whole and of home, slowly replaced by the reality of his current situation. He scrunched his eyes shut against the unwelcome light flooding his side of the room. It felt like he'd only just crawled into the cot. Dreams of running, it turned out, were about a restful as the literal act. After a show of grunts and groans, not that anybody was there to appreciate his displeasure, he chanced a glance across the room. The empty cot opposite came as no surprise. Carver hadn't been home since he'd been sworn in- a ceremony mother kept reminding him he should have attended. Somehow, Garrett had failed to impart just how dangerous an apostate in front of a group of over-eager, fresh-faced mage-hunters would have been. He recalled, hoisting himself semi-upright with yet another unhappy groan, that she had brought up his father's name and made a point about him being well-trained to hide. Not minding his age, or the petulance of the act, Garrett had opted to stomp to the door and slam it on the way out. Gamlen had chastised him for waking the neighbors across the hall when he finally stumbled back that night. Yet another memory that just wouldn't seem to leave him be.

There were more theatrics, more of Garrett complaining about his sore back and stiff neck to an empty room while he struggled to his feet. Father had always been a morning person. Mother was probably up and busy around the house as he surveyed the alarm clock on the once-shared bedside table with a look of suspicion. He hadn't inherited that particular trait, much to the annoyance of nearly everyone he knew. Carver had a penchant for sleeping in as well, and there was a little pang when Garrett considered that it _was _a bit easier to take the nagging when he wasn't the sole offender. He drove the thought from his head by snapping his gaze across the room to his pile of clothes, doing his best to entirely avoid glancing again at the stripped cot. He settled on the outfit he'd worn the day prior- work pants that had, at some point, been black (though they now stood as mismatched patchwork with too many stains to really be presentable) and the deep red flannel. He surveyed himself in the mirror before stripping down the top half again and switching for a newer, far cleaner shirt from Carver's abandoned stack of clothing. He was broader around the chest than his brother and the fabric stretched in a way that Garrett felt flattered his physique. Mother would roll her eyes and make that little 'tsk' sound, but he was by fair vain enough to enjoy a look or two around town.

"Breakfast?" he chanced the question before he peeked out of the room. The response was about as dismal as he feared.

"It's near ten, you damn layabout," his uncle, of course. As if he had any space to talk. Garrett couldn't rightly recall seeing him anywhere but slouched over the dining table, save slouched over the bar at The Hanged Man, "Leandra's out, and you're touched if you think I'm about to fix you-"

"Never mind," Garrett grunted his response, brushing right past the table without so much as glancing at Gamlen. He was, as per usual, in no mood for a lecture. Even less so a lecture from his uncle. Mother may have told him, and on more than one occasion, that he should really be grateful. Gamlen was, after all, letting the family (what remained of it, at least) stay with him. They wouldn't have found suitable shelter otherwise, not when they found themselves only a few among a flood of refugees. Garrett would have taken the street sooner, but there was still a sense of duty to his family, even if that family was just Mother. He gritted his teeth and listened to Gamlen moan about one bill or another while he threw bread in the toaster. He didn't even make a snide remark when his uncle pointed out more bluntly, for what must have been the hundredth time that week, that he was being eaten out of house and home. Instead, he gave an over-enthusiastic smile while he took jam from the fridge.

"Dear, dear uncle," he hummed while he spread his toast, a bit more vigorously than was strictly necessary, "it's such a pleasure sharing your quarters. So generous of you, letting us stay even after Mother found she didn't have any of that inheritance to pay you with," that one was a stinger, a pointed stab at Gamlen for sins that had been committed before Garrett was even walking. He offered a toothy grin and, toast in hand and mess left on the counter, headed for the door. Gamlen was still stammering his usual excuses and arguments when Garrett grabbed his boots to put on in the hall, rather than go through the tirade again. He'd already gone further than he would dare had the two not been alone, and there was no doubt in his mind that if he remained for further discussion he would find himself without a bed come nightfall. This didn't worry him, but he still slammed the door behind and sat himself outside in the apartment building's hallway for Mother's sake. He was downright leisurely about finishing his light breakfast- he could still hear Gamlen moaning and whining through the paper-thin walls and there was something terribly satisfying about getting him so worked up.

He took no rush in putting his boots on for that matter. He went for the phone, somewhere in a pocket he always had trouble locating along his thigh, then tapped out a message to Athenril before setting to the grueling process of lacing up. He'd slept in even longer than he intended, not that he kept much to a set schedule. Still, the elf had little work for him earlier in the week and the sooner he got a hold of her, the better his odds sat. It was far from an ideal situation, but she gave him exactly the kind of work he was made for. People couldn't really be mercenaries- not in a long, long time. There probably wasn't a better word for it, though. They called him 'hired help' or he would describe his situation as 'doing odd jobs' but it all worked out the same. Nobody had ever claimed Kirkwall to be safe and the danger extended beyond the ever-risky position of being an apostate. Someone would always need protection. Moreover, people would always want power. Most of the time, people wanted to keep their hands clean, keep their names and reputations in-tact. So people called in for 'hired help'. He could be a body guard, bounty hunter, smuggler, and assassin; sometimes, he was all of them at once. Whether they still used the word or not, Hawke _was _a mercenary. The job came with the sort of thrill that running brought him, though admittedly without the freedom. It was exciting, in the way that narrowly avoiding being hit by a bus could be exciting. It was likely that he would make a misstep one day, that he might end up dead sooner over later, and that was what kept him going back for more. He didn't have a death wish, no more than anyone else in the city, but there was something deeply satisfying about knowing that he should have been dead a hundred times over.

Garrett's phone buzzed a response while he was struggling with his second boot. He really hated those little eyelets and his fingers always seemed to fumble badly on them. It was an excuse to take a breather from what should have been a simple task. He slid his thumb across the scratched screen and eyed the response. Not what he expected, nor one of his employer's usual messages. He had to check the sender again before he was sure it wasn't a mistake.

_Client at Hanged Man. Full time pos. Right up your alley._

He read the message itself more than once as well, then went back to lacing without bothering to respond. Full time didn't exactly fit his bill. Full time translated to routine, schedules, monotony, boredom. The worst danger he could foresee was being injured by a machine, maybe throwing his back out with some heavy lifting. Definitely not up his alley. And yet, when he stood and pocketed his phone again, he took the long way out of the apartment, to the exit that would let him out nearest the bar. He had little hope for anything more than a waste of his time, but the more he thought of it, the more meaning the text seemed to have.

Point One: If there was worthwhile work to be done elsewhere, Athenril would have sent him. He may have been a heavy sleeper and a renowned smart ass, but Garrett was good at his job.

Point Two: Athenril wasn't exactly the type to send her employees away to whatever factory or shop had a 'Help Wanted' sign in the window.

Point Three: She knew what Garrett liked.

That last one was the point that kept nagging at him, kept leading him down the side streets and deep into the part of the city where he did most of his work. It wasn't that he trusted Athenril. If anything, he expected this to be a trap. It wasn't unheard of for him to come head-to-head with someone he had worked alongside weeks before. Those guys all seemed to have it coming, though. They'd always slighted her- taken an extra cut, let some information slip, done something stupid enough to get themselves killed. Garrett was smarter than that, or so he liked to think. He definitely couldn't bring any betrayals to mind, nor could he summon up a thought of anyone he'd mortally offended. When he'd reached the bar without finding any solid reason that the job might actually be one form of termination or another, his mind was thoroughly set. He would talk to whoever this client was, provided he could even find them on such limited information. He would hear them out and, likely as not by his reasoning, tell them to piss off. He'd even be in exactly the place to get a drink to take his mind off such a monumental waste of time. There was a hint of a nod to himself as he hesitated only a moment with his hand on the door, then plunged into the dim stink of The Hanged Man.

All considered, the place was no worse than any other bar. No better, for that matter. It was a stinking pisshole in a city that also fit that description so far as Hawke had seen. Sure, he'd ventured into the nicer parts of town, but for someone like him? The bar may as well have been the whole city. Even after months of fine work, he'd barely two coins to rub together. Somehow, despite his 'rent-free' situation, he found himself paying more of Gamlen's bills than the old man did himself. Maybe, he considered, just a little too much hope starting to rise in his chest, this would be their ticket out of that place. Full time meant more money, whether the pay was good or not. They might not make it out of the slums, but there was always a chance he and Mother could at least move to an apartment down the hall. It was this thought that was shoved from his mind when he heard a voice calling for him.

"Oi! Hawke! Hey, c'mere a minute, boy!" The barman was signaling him over, a sort of worried expression on his face. Garrett didn't care much for the look, but ignoring him was hardly an option. Not when the half-empty bar now had their eyes on him. So he let out a sigh and slung himself into a stool, hunching over at once in an attempt to actually hear the old man. Even with only a handful of morning patrons, the bar always managed to have a downright startling amount of background noise. Someone had fed a few dollars into the jukebox and the crowd, despite their numbers, were as boisterous as might be found on a Friday night.

"Not much time for a drink," Garrett had to raise his voice to work through the noise. The man behind the bar looked about ninety and Garrett somehow got the impression that he would have been shouting even if they were speaking in an empty street, "Here on business, I guess," he took a look over his shoulder and felt his frown deepen. Not a soul in there looked capable of getting Athenril's attention, undetermined working a contract through her. Yet, when he looked back at the barman, he didn't seem surprised. Perhaps a little more worried, but not surprised.

"That's what it's about, m'boy," it didn't help that the man didn't seem capable of raising his voice above a husky grunt. Garrett was straining, but when the words clicked into place, he felt a cold sinking in his stomach. His full-time opportunity suddenly sounded like a role as a bouncer. That bubble of hope had burst quite abruptly.

"You're the one hiring?" Garret asked. He didn't bother to hide his astonishment at this apparent revelation, nor his relief when the barman quickly shook his head and gave a nervous chuckle.

"Not at all, not at all. Couldn't afford ya, not that you don't know it," he took the jab at himself with good grace and Garrett found his mood improving in small steps, "Your man's upstairs, yeah?" Garrett moved to stand with this information, but the barman bade him to wait. That concerned look was back and the sinking disappointment had fled Garrett's belly to be replaced with a tight knot of dread. He should have trusted that instinct. This, he decided more firmly than before, could be trouble.

"What is it then?" Garrett hadn't meant to sound quite as sharp as he came off, but it was all part of his persona. He may not mind a chat with the barman when he was ordering drinks or trying to track down Gamlen to face his mother's wrath, but he was on business now. He was pretty sure the illusion of being in a rush gave a better impression.

"Ain't really my place to say, but..." he trailed, gave an absolutely conspiratorial look. It may not have been his place, but Garrett knew the man had enough of an ear to know trouble and was stupid enough to let it 'slip', "...but, I think this one's trouble is all. Been stayin' here weeks, bringin' all sorts in. Drunks, whores, your type,"

"Please, you flatter me," Hawke shot with a grin. He was tempted to point out that the sort of person who rented out rooms above a cheap bar had no place to judge who passed through, but he found himself interested in what the guy had to say. Assuming this was dangerous, even bar gossip might be of some use.

"Anyway, I don't know what he's up to. Always around, always _listening._" The barman looked especially suspicious about this last point, something that seemed to fly over Hawke's head.

"And this listening he does is somehow dangerous?" Again, Garrett did little to hide his thoughts on the implication. Listening was smart. Talking was what got people in trouble. It's probably what would get this guy killed, sad as that may be.

"Information is dangerous if you use it right. Be careful is all I'm sayin'." Whether that was really all he had to say or Garrett had offended with his incredulity, it was hard to tell. Either way, the man turned his back and made a show of washing glasses when he finished the statement. Garrett had to stare at his back for a moment or two before he took this cue to go. The warning seemed pointless, but something still didn't quite sit right. It wasn't normal for anyone under Athenril's eye to offer their opinion on her doings, and this old man had come dangerously close to just that. It was with this in mind that Garrett pushed off the stool and headed for the stairs at the far end of the bar. He hated those damn stairs. He'd only chanced his way up them once or twice, when the alternative was pissing in the alley. They always gave a dangerous creak- something far more tangibly worrying than anything the barman had to say. One day, he'd speculated, the whole flight would give in and someone would end up with some nasty splinters and a disappointing settlement. Garrett took the stairs slowly, wincing every time he felt rotting boards bow under his weight.

He headed down the hall with as much apprehension as he'd given the stairs. The stink was worst right at the top of the flight, where a bathroom was tucked at either side. It always seemed like a dangerous setup, practically begging some drunkard to break his neck when he stumbled out. Further down, a door at either side stood open. Both were empty, with beds made in such a sloppy manner that Garrett had to wonder why the old man even bothered. Hell, maybe the guy _should _ have been the one hiring. With both rooms empty, his destination seemed clear. There was another hesitation, an unwelcome little surge of adrenaline that he had to shake off before he chanced a knock at the door. It creaked open with the force and an entirely unfamiliar voice welcomed him in.

The contact, it turned out, was a dwarf. Not entirely an uncommon sight around town, but somehow not what he had expected. He stood, motioned for Garrett to close the door behind him before taking a bow that could only be interpreted as half-sarcastic and introducing himself.

"Varric Tethras, at your service," he motioned again, this time toward a chair that looked likely to collapse under Garrett's weight. The room was a sort of organized chaos. The bed had been pushed to one side with a table set up beside it. The center of the room was taken up mostly by a desk that could have been seen as overly large even for a human, an equally grand office chair behind it. At the other side, were books. Shelves and piles, stacks that must have been taller than Varric, all of books. There were blank and half-filled pages strewn across the desk, pens littered with enough regularity that Garrett felt one crunch as he stepped to the chair. An electric hum emanated from somewhere under one of the stacks of paper on the desk, likely a laptop that served, at some point, as a paperweight.

"Hawke," Garrett responded, still taking in his surroundings. Varric smiled at the curt introduction, sitting back at the chair that looked entirely more comfortable than the one his guest had been provided.

"So I've been told," Varric hadn't so much at glanced as his desk, something that existed clearly for storage and formality. Garrett, across the oak top, was at a loss. Whatever he had expected, it hadn't been this. It hadn't been a makeshift office above a bar, manned by a dwarf with a name that felt familiar but just couldn't quite be placed. Then again, he had to hand it to Athenril- he was interested. The entire setup seemed to be one contradiction after another. While the room felt more like a hotel than an office, the guy had managed to drive off that putrid smell that permeated the rest of the bar and given the room considerably more personality otherwise. Garrett watched while the dwarf made himself comfortable in the seat, kicking his feet up on the table with little concern for what ended up crumpled or torn under his boots.

"I'm guessing you've been told much more than I have then," Garrett had to reach for something to say. He was far removed from his element, still not sure what he was dealing with on the whole. He kept glancing around the room, as if there were hints he had somehow missed. This behavior seemed to amuse Varric greatly.

"You know what Athenril knows, if I've done my job right," this came as a surprise. Garrett's expression must have amused Varric as much as his frantic looks around the room as he let out a low chuckle, "discretion is a fair part of my job," Varric continued, not waiting for response from Hawke, "I expect you can relate."

Again, Garrett was left unsure of how to respond. It didn't happen often and he thanked his father for a sharp sense of sarcasm that could usually get him out of the awkward silences. He had to search his mind a beat too long to come up with anything though. He was having no trouble making up excuses- he had just woken up, he had drank too much the night before, Athenril had given him nothing to go on, the warning from the bar man, the list kept expanding, but it wasn't as much of a help as he might have hoped.

"I expect I can," he finally offered back. Not a particularly insightful response, but Varric somehow still seemed pleased by it, "I have to admit, I'm better with the direct approach."

"A fair stance for someone in your line of work," Varric said, one foot tapping against the edge of the desk, "in that case, let's talk business," Garrett thought to protest, but Varric pushed on, "consider me a recruitment agent. I have a colleague, you might say, who's looking to bring on some hired help in an extended capacity. He's looking for something specific. Someone with particular...talent."

The emphasis Varric put on that last word made Garrett jerk his head and straighten in the chair. Suddenly, the barman's warning seemed to make a lot more sense. There was a reason Athenril sent him to Varric, and that particular reason could get him all sorts of dead. Or worse. Varric, it seemed, knew exactly who he was dealing with. The sort of person who was discrete not just because his job depended on it, but his life. He had leverage in the information, assuming he had it. The way he said it and the way he looked at Garrett afterward didn't make the assumption a far leap. He tried to remember what his father had taught him- don't say a word. Don't confirm a suspicion. Don't give yourself away. Be smart, win them over, fool them, don't get caught. Varric already knew more than almost anyone Hawke had encountered, though. This was more than suspicion.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Hawke lied all the same. Better not to take the chance. Play dumb, he told himself. If Varric knew, there was nothing he could do to change it. If he only suspected, Garrett wasn't going to hand over the information freely. He wasn't going to hand himself over at any cost.

"No, of course not," Varric didn't seem particularly surprised by the denial, "However, I sent out a request and Athenril thinks you fit the bill."

"That request being?" Hawke found himself more on-point by now, better ready to hold his own in a conversation that was becoming increasingly one-sided.

"My colleague, I mentioned. He's part of a particular organization seeking someone of a _sympathetic _disposition. You should know that your name carries certain implications in your particular line of work."

Garrett hadn't considered it, as it so happened. He'd taken his surname as means of identification when he was much younger. He could just barely remember friends of his father nicknaming him the 'Little Hawke'. He'd graduated from 'little' to 'young' a good ten years ago. His father's death had promoted him to simply Hawke. His father. If Varric was telling the truth, and Garrett had little way to tell, any reputation would have come from his father. How anyone in 'his line of work' would make the connection only escaped him for a moment. Then he considered it. He thought about his father, who moved them around to avoid the Templars but still kept the family fed and warm. He couldn't recall Mother ever holding a job, but Father...Father might be off at work for days. 'Odd jobs' Mother had said, 'Whatever work he can get'. The realization came with a particular jolt.

"I think you have me confused," Garrett wanted to make to leave just then, but something had him stuck to his seat, "Malcolm was my father. He's been dead for some time."

"No confusion there. I'm told you bare a striking resemblance, though," and there it was again, that pointed emphasis that made Garrett border on ill, "I also understand that he had certain traits that might lend you insight to my colleague's plight."

"You still haven't told me what that plight is," Garrett wasn't losing his patience so much as he was losing his nerve. He had more than an inkling as to where this was going now and it wasn't a path he was jumping to follow. It had all but been spelled out for him. They were talking about the Underground- the loose collective of mages in Kirkwall with a particular talent for getting themselves killed. To Hawke's knowledge, they'd yet to make a meaningful impact outside of making the Templars' job much easier. Discretion felt antithetical to their organization. Their cause might have been just, but they were doing nothing to further it. Garrett had spent his entire life an apostate. Kirkwall was the first Circle City he'd been to. He was already a fugitive by birth, the last thing he needed was to be branded a terrorist as well.

"I think you can work that one out on your own," Varric gave that little chuckle again, "I'll be straight with you, Hawke. It's messy, dangerous work. This is an organization that needs someone like you. Someone who knows how to get things done and come out of it alive," he tented his fingers now, his expression becoming more serious, "I've been told that messy and dangerous is exactly your kind of work."

"Staying alive is my kind of work," Hawke didn't miss a beat this time, "and let's say I have worked this out on my own. These aren't the kind of people who have made a name for themselves by doing that. Hell, they aren't the kind of people who can afford me." Hawke thought this his best argument left. A member of the Underground couldn't possibly hold a lucrative career. It was unlikely that most of them were employed. He may not have commanded the best of salaries himself, but Garrett couldn't see this as more than a suicide mission and he certainly wasn't in the market to get himself killed over what he made easily from a guard job. This, however, seemed to be exactly the response Varric was looking for, as he brought his legs from the desk and rolled the chair close, while he went for a drawer in the desk. Hawke had never intended money to be the breaking point, hadn't planned on entertaining the thought of this job once he worked out what it was. He felt his resolve weaken though, when Varric laid the stack of cash on the desk.

"Consider it good will," he motioned to Hawke, pushed the cash closer when there was no immediate grab, "all I ask is that you speak with him. See what he has to say. You're free to make your decision from there. I assure you, he can afford it."

Garrett had to survey the stack before he moved a muscle toward it. Then he counted it. It was more money than he'd ever held at once. It was enough on its own to get him and Mother out of Gamlen's. He tried to steady himself, mind and eager fingers. Whatever Varric said, Hawke had serious doubts that he was doing anything less than selling his life. Just meeting with a member of the Underground was enough to cast suspicion. It could be a death sentence if he was seen by the wrong people. The money, though. It was a lot of fucking money. His mind traveled in new directions now, down routes he had considered too dangerous to explore. He was good at what he did. He'd made it nearly twenty six years without being caught. Father was dead. Bethany was dead. Carver was as good as dead for all Garrett cared. Only mother was left to endanger. Mother, who had been using here maiden name since they returned to the city. Mother, who had wild hopes of winning back a house Gamlen had gambled away. Mother could take care of herself. Especially if they job kept paying like this. He couldn't say it was a good idea, he wouldn't be able to justify it if he were ever asked to, but he pocketed the cash and stood.

"I'll meet with him. No promises," he kept his voice as gruff, as non-committal as he could muster.

"No promises," Varric agreed, "I'll be in touch."


End file.
